


The Great American Novel

by whatevenisabrobeck



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 11:05:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9437351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatevenisabrobeck/pseuds/whatevenisabrobeck
Summary: “It’s a metaphor for America, or something-- right, Dallon?” Sarah twirled her cigarette elegantly, sending curved lines of smoke through the air. There was already smoke in the air, curling from Dallon’s lips and those of nearly everyone else in the room.“It’s a metaphor for society,” Dallon rolled his eyes slightly, as if he didn’t want to talk about his book, “None of us can stand each other, can we?”“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brendon asked shortly.“It means,” Dallon huffed, and more smoke came out of his mouth in a somehow graceful way, “That people can only feign interest in their so-called friends for a few hours before things get deadly.”“Do you only speak in loglines?”“Do you only speak in questions?” Dallon raised his eyebrow  a bit, giving Brendon a sideways smirk.“Only when I want an answer.”1920's AU





	1. Chapter 1

It was snowing. Little crystals of soft, white ice found their way to the ground in a furious mob, traveling great distances in the span of a few seconds by way of strong winter winds. The air was wicked, cold and sharp, the kind of air that stings one’s eyes as soon as one is outside and freezes even the driest of hair. Heaps of snow were piled outside on the grounds, undisturbed by footsteps of human or horse. The outside conditions could almost be considered a blizzard.  
Brendon sat, separated from this by a thick, clear window, near the fireplace, absently scanning the contents of a book. He had no idea which book, and were you to ask he would not be able to produce the name of the author or the main character. He had bad eyesight, anyway-- even if he were truly interested in reading, Brendon wouldn’t be able to. His foot twitched noticeably, and Anubis glanced at him in confusion.  
The fire roared, and, if only for a moment, Brendon considered sticking his hand in it, to prove to himself that he was still alive. He knew exactly what he’d have heard from Ryan on the subject-- “Go ahead, if you’d like to live the rest of your life with the scars from a third degree burn”-- but that wasn’t what stopped his latest irrational plot. No, he couldn’t care less what Ryan would’ve told him; Ryan was gone now. Brendon didn’t burn his hand because were he to purposely deform himself, he would be disowned, and then he would be without love and without shelter.  
Instead, he settled for tossing the book onto the fire and watching as it was consumed by the flames. It was satisfying, but Brendon lingered momentarily on the thought of his hand suffering a similar fate. He would scream, and Anubis would bark, and Spencer would come running just in time to pull Brendon away from the fire. He would ice the burn, although it wouldn’t help, and write Ryan once again, asking him to come home and put Brendon out of his misery. And, once again, Ryan wouldn’t respond. Or he would, saying that he was too busy and that coming home would be murder to his career.  
That was fair. All of it was fair. The past few months-- was it a year? Brendon had lost track of time-- were incredibly fair. The previous two years had been extremely unfair, and although he denied it, Brendon recognized that fact. If only Ryan could see him now, he thought. If only Ryan could see him dreaming of burning his hand simply to watch it be consumed by flame. Then-- then nothing. He needed to stop thinking about it.  
Brendon sighed, rising from the comfortable armchair he had settled into. He needed a change of scenery, he decided. Something drastically different from the house that he and Ryan had inhabited and even farther from where Ryan was now. Grace and Boyd would happily finance some sort of trip, Brendon reminded himself. They were likely dying to rid themselves of their… difficult son. He could bring Spencer with him; they could leave the cottage to some distant relative in need of lodging. The more he thought about it the more he liked this idea.  
But where would they go? That was the question, really. Brendon had the whole planet to choose from, an entire earth to narrow down to one locality, save New York or Egypt. Nowhere that might make him think of Ryan. Nowhere he might run into Ryan by mistake or be tempted to “run into” Ryan on purpose. It would have to be somewhere that, even were Ryan to travel there in some horrific turn of fate, the two would be unlikely to see each other. Someplace big, someplace populated….  
Suddenly, Brendon was brought to a memory from months ago, just after Ryan left, a memory he had buried. It was a small detail of a mammoth memory, something that only mattered to Brendon because of the particular tapestry of which it was a thread. The box had come to Brendon, by way of post, probably weeks after Ryan had sent it. It was just a plain rock, described in the small accompanying note as limestone. Apparently, Ryan wasn’t supposed to take anything from the dig site, but he had made a special exception to send Brendon some dusty rock. How romantic.  
The rock, however, was not important. The crate it was in, covered in dust that apparently wreaked havoc on Spencer’s allergies, was not important either. What was important was the newspaper that Ryan had wrapped the rock in, an English paper despite the fact that Ryan was supposed to be in Egypt-- where had he gotten that? This thought, of course, was beside the point. The point was that the article encasing the rock was titled American Art Community Forming in Paris. Interesting,

“Brendon…” Spencer was making dinner, chopping carrots and giving Brendon a concerned look. “Paris? Are you sure? Why?”  
“I can play piano,” Brendon offered. “I can sing.”  
“I understand that, but…” Spencer used his knife to push the carrots from the cutting board to a large pot that was simmering on the stove. “Surely you understand the… culture there?”  
“What is there to understand?” Brendon asked. “They’ve cleaned up from the war, don’t worry. I read an article about it, there’s actually a large community of American artists living there.” Of course, the only part of the article Brendon had read was the title, but that was irrelevant.  
“Exactly. Artists.”  
“What’s wrong with artists?”  
“Nothing,” Spencer sighed. “Ryan was an artist, do you remember? They’re his people, Brendon.”  
“But they aren’t him,” Brendon leaned against the kitchen’s brick wall, “I don’t understand your point outside of that.”  
“Perhaps it isn’t my place,” Spencer mumbled. “I’m simply saying that Ryan has hurt you more than I’ve ever seen anyone be hurt. I worry that if you seek a community of people similar to Ryan, with similar worldviews, you’ll get hurt again. Please don’t make a choice that will lead to misery.”  
“You’re right, it isn’t your place,” Brendon smiled. “But you’ll be there with me, my dear wet blanket. I won’t be offended if you block someones advances.”  
“Or your own?”  
“Or my own.”  
“As you are my employer, I’m going to guess that I don’t have a choice?” Spencer made the same face he had made when Ryan announced where and why he was going.  
“Your guess is, as always, accurate.”  
“When do you hope to leave?” He sprinkled a spoonful of some dried green herb into whatever he was cooking.  
Brendon shrugged. “As soon as I possibly can.”  
“Have you told Grace--err, Mrs. Urie yet?”  
“Not yet,” Brendon admitted. “I was hoping that we would tell her tomorrow over lunch? She is coming for lunch, yes?”  
“Of course,” Spencer responded, pouring a generous amount of what looked like cream into the pot. “It is Wednesday, after all. Have you mentioned anything to Elizabeth?”  
“No, perhaps we should have her over for lunch as well?”  
“Better make that dinner,” Spencer advised. “Your mother isn’t particularly fond of Elizabeth.”  
“I’m sure she only feels guilty.”  
“Why should she? Elizabeth is no longer upset,” He swallowed a spoonful of the orange mixture he’d been cooking. “Could you taste this? I think it needs more sugar, but I’m not cooking for myself.”  
Brendon walked over to where Spencer stood, and, before sipping a ladle’s worth of what he determined to be carrot soup, said, “Elizabeth was never upset. She and Ryan weren’t-- well, they didn’t marry for love.”  
“Have you heard anything new about the,” Spencer dropped his voice to a whisper, “Divorce?”  
“Not since Christmas,” Brendon replied. “I hope the courts have approved it-- I don’t think I’d have stayed married to him, either, had he done what he did to her to me.”  
“What he did with you, or what he did with his career?”  
“Both,” Brendon decided. “Although I am glad that Elizabeth didn’t… didn’t bring the case to a judge’s attention sooner.”  
“As am I,” Spencer agreed. “God only knows what they would’ve done to you.”  
There was an awkward silence, where, were Ryan with them, he would’ve described exactly what the law enforcement officials would’ve done. “Spencer?”  
“Yes?”  
“You’re right. The soup does need more sugar.”


	2. Chapter 2

Elizabeth perched nervously on her seat, her usual smile gone from her face. Brendon knew that she wasn’t particularly fond of the Cottage, but he wasn’t particularly fond of the Estate, and it was his news this time. If and when the divorce went through, Brendon would call on Elizabeth at her home, the one she had once shared with Ryan. They were victims, both of them, refugees from the same disastrous world, placed separately into the same calm, new one. It was never easy to speak with Elizabeth, but she needed to know that Brendon would be gone.  
“Elizabeth,” he began, poking at his food. “I-- Spencer and I-- we’re going to Paris. Permanently, most likely, or for as long as we need to… get back on our feet.”  
“Why?” She asked. “Is it… is it him?” Neither of them ever referred to Ryan by name in the other’s company. It was something done out of consideration for wounded feelings, although both were healed enough to speak of Ryan directly on their own time.  
“No, nothing like that,” Brendon assured her. Spencer made a strange strangled coughing noise, revealing his presence in the next room. “Well-- not… not entirely….”  
“Did he write?” Elizabeth smiled. “I thought he might write to you, after all, he really did love--”  
“No, he didn’t.”  
“Write, or love you?”  
“He didn’t write,” Brendon huffed. “And he didn’t love me, either, Elizabeth. He used me just like he used you, you don’t have to pretend otherwise.”  
“What did he use you for, then?” She was still smiling. Elizabeth was a strange woman.  
“He was bored,” Brendon longed for a cigarette to puff on-- or a cigar. Hell, even a pipe was better than nothing. “He was bored and I was gullible.”  
“Pardon me, but I prefer to believe that my husband cheated for love,” Elizabeth stirred her wine around in its glass with her soup spoon. “But that’s not why you called me here, is it?”  
“No, it’s not.”  
“Why Paris?” Elizabeth inquired. “I mean, what… what is there for you in France?”  
“There’s a large American arts community there,” Brendon recited, “They throw fantastic parties and paint great masterpieces and discover new things. I want to be part of that, Elizabeth. I want… I want to play piano with them. I want to drink with them. There’s nothing for me in New York anymore.”  
“And Anubis?”  
“You can take him, if you like,” Brendon began cutting his steak into impossibly tiny pieces. “It’d probably be better that way-- of course, Spencer and I could take him on the ship with us.”  
“And find a Paris apartment? I’ll take care of him, Bren, but not for Ryan-- for you.”  
There was a silence after this, even Spencer kept quiet in his hiding place behind the door. This was the first time either Brendon or Elizabeth had uttered Ryan’s name in the other’s company, in such a casual way that it could almost be mistaken for a commonplace saying. Not for Ryan, for you. Here was Elizabeth, doing a favor for the man her husband had cheated on her with.  
Somehow, through months of stilted, formal, and polite conversations and near-ceremonial dinners, Elizabeth and Brendon had developed what might’ve been called a friendship. Neither knew a thing about the other, but they had reached some silent agreement that they would look out for eachother. They had reached some unspoken pact that they would protect each other from Ryan, were he to return to either the Cottage or the Estate.  
Protect, like he wanted to hurt either. Protect, like the things that the two of them said and thought about him were really true. Protect, as if Ryan had really used Brendon the way that they all pretended he had. In truth, both Brendon and Elizabeth were aware of the goodness of Ryan’s character-- they just agreed to overlook it for their own benefit. 

“Thank you,” Brendon breathed. “It means a lot.”  
“I don’t know why he couldn’t have just taken his damn dog to Egypt with him.”

 

“I told you, Brendon, she doesn’t care,” They were lying awake, listening intently to the crickets chirping outside. “And if she did, it wouldn’t matter.”  
“Yes it would, she’s your wife.”  
“Indeed, but there is no love there,” Ryan spoke like a poet, playing with a stick-straight lock of Brendon’s hair. “Here, there is love, and I shall do as I must to preserve it, protect it, and coddle it, to aid this sapling in its growth to the tallest tree in the forest.”  
“Did you write that?”  
“Yes, what did you think?”  
Brendon propped himself up on his elbow and attempted, ungracefully, to shrug. “It’s a bit flowery.”  
“You’re just jealous,” Ryan averted his eyes from Brendon in mock anger.  
Brendon laughed. “Because you wrote something comparing our romance to a tree?”  
“Precisely.”  
“This is all beside the point,” Brendon sighed. “Are you sure that Elizabeth will let you live in the Cottage? And your parents?”  
“Elizabeth doesn’t care either way,” Ryan assured him. “As I said, she doesn’t love me, and I don’t love her. I love you.”  
“And I you, but Ryan--”  
“Trust me,” This he whispered, barely audibly. “Brendon, trust me. You are my everything, my moon and my sun, my stars and my earth. If it’s meant to be, it will work, no matter what, alright? If it’s meant to be, our love will be the strongest thing. If it’s meant to be… if it’s meant to be, you and I will conquer the meaningful world, our entire world, and make it our own.”  
“So that’s what you do all day,” Brendon chuckled. “You hole yourself up in your study and write.”  
“More or less.”  
They both laughed. Brendon and Ryan were the kind of pair that managed, inexplicably, to find everything that happened to them utterly hilarious. They filled their lives with inside jokes and bouts of meaningless giggling. They were two peas in a pod, as the saying goes. “I do hate to leave Elizabeth all alone in that great big house,” Brendon mumbled, almost to himself.  
“She’ll manage,” Ryan promised, brushing Brendon’s squarely trimmed hair out of his eyes. “I don’t see why you think her happiness is more important than ours.”  
“Her happiness is easier than ours.”  
“I suppose,” Ryan said sadly, “That it is exactly so for everyone but me.”

Brendon huffed loudly at the memory. That was Ryan, filling every exchange with utterly needless words. Brendon had been scared, he recalled, and Ryan had offered him mere poetry. Brendon had been genuinely worried for their safety, and Ryan had tied a nice red bow around a jumble of cliches, rhymes, and nature metaphors and handed them to Brendon in place of a definite answer.  
Elizabeth had gone; she never stayed after dinner. Spencer had escorted her back to the Estate-- although she didn’t particularly need protection on the mile walk, Elizabeth liked the company-- leaving Brendon alone. He hadn’t been sure of what to do, at first, and had settled on the one thing that he would actually miss about New York. He spent the rest of his evening at the radio, listening to American broadcasts about American issues.


	3. Chapter 3

It was impossible not to notice the boat’s calm but unorganized pattern of rocking back and forth. Brendon was in what had been generously called a “stateroom”-- in truth, it was smaller than his washroom back home, complete with two tiny beds, a window, a chest of drawers, and not much else. Some of the rooms didn’t have windows, but, unfortunately, Spencer had been intent on the pair of them “seeing what the Atlantic has to offer.” It seemed that, two days into the three-day journey, that the Atlantic, like Ryan, boasted depth, picturesquely natural waves, and much of the same thing, repeating on into what felt like infinity.   
Spencer had left the so-called “stateroom” in search of fresh air, something that Brendon couldn’t understand wanting. Ships like this went down all the time. Of course, if the ship did sink, Spencer was probably closer to the lifeboats and would be rowed to safety, whereas Brendon, holed up in his tiny, shifting cabin, would be lucky not to drown in the first ten minutes. He pictured Ryan, making a similar journey in similar waters, the same waters, perhaps, having nowhere near the same thoughts. Ryan would love this-- the danger, the lack of entertainment, the aloneness.  
He pictured, now, himself as a rotted skeleton at the bottom of the ocean, fish swimming in and out of his eye sockets and ribs. He pictured thousands of rotted skeletons in their fancy boat clothes, all sitting there, waiting for some search party to discover them. He then pictured the backstory of this utterly disgusting future-- the ship hitting something and tipping backwards, people sliding off the decks and then freezing to death in the icy water. He pictured himself, tossed between the walls of the cabin, being thrown like a tennis ball until his untimely and painful death on the ocean floor, and Spencer, sliding down the carpeted hallway and leaping off the ship through a window just in time, preferably landing in a lifeboat or on some large piece of furniture and floating to safety. Even in Brendon’s awful daydreams, Spencer was alright.  
Of course, this was unrealistic. Were the ship to actually capsize with no warning, Spencer would sink with everyone else. His being a good person and Brendon’s best friend gave him no special protection from the reality of life, which was regrettable but, unfortunately, true. Odd, Brendon thought, that the world refused to stop or suspend its unjust laws momentarily to make everything turn out right. Odd, that no divine power or sign from above had been able to make Ryan stay in New York with the life that had made him reasonably happy. Odd, that someone or something, somewhere and somehow, had made Brendon fall in love with someone who cared more about a teenage boy who had died 3,000 years earlier.  
The world was an odd place. Brendon was interrupted from his thoughts by a knock at the door, immediately followed by Spencer’s entrance. “Are you going to dinner?” he asked gently. “I know you don’t want to get seasick, but you need to at least have something… if you want, I can see if the kitchens can spare an orange.”  
Brendon sighed. “I’ll go.”  
“That’s good,” Spencer sat down on his bed. “I heard there’ll be duck.”  
“Duck? I don’t suppose I’d trust duck prepared on a boat.”  
“They have chicken as well.”  
“I think I’ll settle for jerky,” Brendon breathed. “I wouldn’t want to ruin Paris with a parasite.”  
“If you don’t eat fruit you’ll get scurvy,” Spencer pointed out. “A little potential vomiting is a reasonable price for having all of your natural teeth.”  
“You have permission to laugh at me when I get scurvy,” Brendon huffed and flopped backwards on his bed. Perhaps this behavior was inappropriate, but as Spencer had been Brendon’s closest confidant for the past five years, neither of them even pretended to care.   
“I’m not sure I’ll find it funny.”  
“Spence,” Brendon breathed, longing again for a cigarette. “My dear wet blanket, don’t worry about my health!”  
Spencer laughed nervously. “Which jacket?” He opened the tiny closet attached to the room.   
“The one that Ryan got me from the Sears catalogue,” Brendon gestured at the black velvet blazer, “Do we have anyone to sit with this evening?”  
Spencer got the jacket out, dusted it off, and handed it to Brendon. “We have an assigned table, if that’s what you mean. Tie?”  
“The red one,” Brendon instructed. “No-- black.”

Brendon and Spencer sat down elegantly at the table, tucking in their chairs and placing their napkins on their laps. They sat at a small table with two young women, both of whom nodded politely. The woman on the left had her long blonde hair pulled into a practical braid and hung over a plain, olive green dress. She wore no makeup, and looked vaguely shy. Her companion had her naturally sun-streaked hair elaborately curled some fashionable hairstyle that Brendon was unable to name. The second woman was wearing a silver dress, equally fashionable, and was incredibly made-up.  
“Good evening, Ladies,” Brendon tipped his hat and smiled the way he used to, jokingly, when hat shopping with Ryan. The blonde looked unimpressed, but the dark-haired one smiled politely, “My name is Brendon, and this is my companion, Spencer.”  
“Lovely to meet you,” the dark haired woman continued smiling. “I’m Sarah, and this is Linda.”  
“Where’re you from?” Spencer asked.  
“Boston. You?”  
“New York.”  
“I’m absolutely in love with your jacket,” Sarah said to Brendon. “It looks very much like something out of a moving picture.”  
“Alright…” Brendon was caught a bit off guard by Sarah’s bubbly personality. She reminded him, in a way, of Elizabeth, if Elizabeth were to do away with her gowns and chop off her hair.   
“You must excuse her,” Linda smiled slightly. “Sarah is a bit of an acquired taste, I’m afraid.”  
“It’s fine,” Spencer assured her. “So is Brendon.”  
“What’s it like in New York?” Sarah inquired. “Is it any different from Boston? Have you been to Boston? I think it’s rather bland, but I suppose that’s what anyone would think of their hometown. Where in New York are you from?”  
“Upstate,” Brendon explained.  
“Have you been to the city?” Sarah’s eyes were wide as she leaned on the table.   
“Of course,” Brendon replied. “Not recently, though, I’m afraid.” Not since Ryan had insisted on an outing to New York’s fancier shops.  
Spencer and Linda had settled into their own conversation. “That’s a shame,” Sarah took a sip of her drink. “What brings you to Paris?”  
“Boredom.”  
“Linda and I are going to get away from our-- to get away from Boston,” her smile faltered momentarily but was soon resurrected, “My, I can’t wait until we dock! This prohibition business-- it seems so ridiculous! I mean, we’re adults, most of us, I think we can handle our drink. Your thoughts?”  
“I’m just glad we missed it,” Brendon breathed. “Hopefully it’ll be over with by the time Spencer and I head back to the States-- I’m not too fond thinking of living in a world without whiskey.”


	4. Chapter 4

The commute from the dock to the apartment which Brendon and Spencer would be sharing was a short one, less than five minutes on foot. Brendon had almost grown accustomed to carrying his own bag by that point; despite this, his arms ached, and he was more than relieved to drop the burden on his new bed. The price of rent on the apartment also covered the furniture within, which saved them quite a bit of shopping.   
Spencer began to unpack the suitcases, folding trousers and hanging shirts and jackets in the closet. The apartment, in its entirety, consisted of two bedrooms, a bathroom (thankfully complete with a bathtub), and a small office. There was no piano, which made Brendon’s excuse of moving across the Atlantic to play the instrument slightly harder to maintain than he had intended. Fortunately, Grace and Boyd had given him quite an allowance with which to finance his stay in Paris, and Elizabeth had taken a thousand dollars out of Ryan’s bank account and sent it with them on the boat. “For the parties,” she had explained, tucking the check into Brendon’s suit pocket.  
It occurred to Brendon that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to write to Elizabeth-- after all, she was, aside from Spencer, his only friend (although Sarah and Linda had invited Brendon and Spencer to a party the next evening at a downtown venue, so perhaps they could be placed on the friend-list as well)-- that, and he felt it would be prudent to establish communication on the off-chance that he and Spencer would need to ask, later, for more of Ryan’s money. It didn’t faze him that Ryan was probably stretched very thin financially in his current occupation-- firstly, it wasn’t his problem anymore, and secondly, Ryan had brought this entirely upon himself.  
This in mind, Brendon got out his pen, ink and paper and began to write at the office desk:

 

My dear Elizabeth,  
Spencer and I’ve just arrived in paris. The weather is fine, unlike at home. How’s Anubis doing? And yourself? The Cottage? Have you stopped by? I trust you’ve found someone to care for Spencer’s plants?  
The boat ride was nauseating and I’m glad it’s over. Has prohibition gone into effect yet? I couldn’t live with it and I’m so glad we missed it. What’ll you do with the wine cellars? Spencer suggested you sell every bottle and make a fortune. I say you send it all here where it’s legal. I’m glad it’s legal.   
Sometimes I wonder what he’d’ve thought. He never talked politics with me. Did he with you? This, Brendon scratched out. I hope you and yours are very well.  
Much love

Brendon initialled the letter as if it were a legal document, and then cocooned it in an envelope, on which he scrawled the address of the Estate. He wondered, vaguely, if Ryan ever wrote to Elizabeth. Why should he? Why should he, if he didn’t write to Brendon or even Spencer? New anger bubbled inside of Brendon, like magma just below the tip of a volcano. He wanted to scream, so loudly that Spencer would drop whatever he was doing and run in, just to find that he was screaming at nothing. Well, nothing that could hear him.

It was late evening, as they approached the hall. They were clad in their best clothes, ones purchased, of course, by Ryan. The door swung open as if to invite them inside; Brendon and Spencer exchanged a look. They were doing this. Really, they were doing this. Here they were, on the threshold of the world for which they had moved across the Atlantic.   
As soon as they were inside, they were greeted by Sarah, who was smiling widely and sporting bright red lipstick. “Brendon! Spencer!” She called, “There’s someone I’d like you to meet!” Sarah gestured at a tall man wearing a suit. He nodded politely at Brendon. “This is Dallon Weekes, he’s from the States, too.”  
“Everyone in Paris these days is from the States,” said Dallon as he lit a cigarette.   
“Yes, true, but…” Sarah waved her hands around, demonstrating an inability to articulate whatever she wanted to say. “Brendon and Spencer were on my and Linda’s ship. They’re from New York, upstate-- I thought that’d be interesting for you.”  
“Why on Earth would someone be interested in upstate New York?” Brendon asked.   
Dallon shrugged. He really was tall-- a good six inches taller than Ryan, who had towered above Brendon. His suit was old-fashioned; it looked like something out of a turn-of-the-century photograph. On his lapel he wore a green carnation-- clever. Ryan would’ve done something like that, broadcast something arguably major about himself in the form of an obscure cultural reference. “I’m writing a book.”  
“He’s being modest,” Sarah explained. “He’s writing The Great American Novel-- it’s set in New York. It’s about these civilized people who get snowed in at some grand party and murder each other.”  
“Sounds brutal,” Spencer muttered.   
“Sounds accurate,” Brendon responded, running a hand through his hair. He was suddenly self-conscious, remembering all the times Ryan had brushed his bangs out of his face or told him to reveal his eyes.   
“It’s a metaphor for America, or something-- right, Dallon?” Sarah twirled her cigarette elegantly, sending curved lines of smoke through the air. There was already smoke in the air, curling from Dallon’s lips and those of nearly everyone else in the room.   
“It’s a metaphor for society,” Dallon rolled his eyes slightly, as if he didn’t want to talk about his book, “None of us can stand each other, can we?”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brendon asked shortly.  
“It means,” Dallon huffed, and more smoke came out of his mouth in a somehow graceful way, “That people can only feign interest in their so-called friends for a few hours before things get deadly.”  
“Do you only speak in loglines?”  
“Do you only speak in questions?” Dallon raised his eyebrow a bit, giving Brendon a sideways smirk.   
“Only when I want an answer.”  
“Do you expect one?” Dallon took a long drag from his cigarette.   
“I expect more than one, as will the critics when you present your book.” Brendon longed for his own cigarette. He missed the feeling of holding one between his fingers, the taste and smell of the smoke…  
“I like you,” Dallon decided. “I think I’ll buy you a drink.”  
Brendon looked around for Spencer and Sarah, but it seemed that she had dragged him somewhere else, where he was incapable of playing the role of Brendon’s conscience. “Why not?”  
Dallon smiled a little. “Wait here,” he instructed. Brendon watched he walked over to the bar and leaned on it, propping himself up with his elbows. Whatever was said between Dallon and the barkeep was a mystery, but soon Dallon was back with a single glass of brown liquor.   
“Where’s mine?”  
“This is yours,” Dallon handed Brendon the glass and brought his cigarette to his lips, inhaling once again.   
“Well, then, where’s yours?”  
“I don’t drink.” This, he said simply, as if he were telling Brendon that he didn’t wear skirts.  
“Why not?”  
“Always so interrogative,” Dallon chuckled and let more smoke out of his mouth. “How about we just say I don’t and leave it at that?”  
“But-- everyone drinks.”  
Brendon was astonished. Never had he come across someone who purposely avoided alcohol. Even Spencer had the occasional glass of wine with dinner, and he found drinking fundamentally ridiculous. Alcohol was as much a part of American culture as were 48 stars and 13 stripes, it was something all adults of status took part in-- wasn’t it?  
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”  
“I-- sorry. I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be,” Dallon laughed. “I get it a lot, actually-- especially here. I understand, though-- parties, it seems, are seen by most as a necessity. It’s sad, if you think about it.”  
“If you don’t drink and you don’t like parties, what are you doing at a party buying drinks for people?”  
“Have you never met a writer before?”  
Brendon considered this. Technically, Ryan was a writer, but, technically, Ryan was a businessman and a poet, a scientist and a thinker, an explorer and a dreamer. Ryan was a little bit of everything. “No.”  
“This is what we do,” more smoke came out of Dallon’s mouth, in the form of a barely visible vapor, “We go to parties, and we find our characters.”  
Maybe Ryan wasn’t a writer, after all-- Brendon never remembered him mentioning any characters. “How?”  
“Hmmm…” Dallon considered this, scanning the room as if looking for the best way to answer Brendon’s question. “I’m not sure. I couldn’t describe it unless it was happening.”


	5. Chapter 5

Brendon talked to Dallon for the rest of the evening. He was an interesting person, who told interesting stories about interesting things. Brendon wasn’t sure if he’d ever met an interesting person before-- most everyone he knew was utterly predictable, nearly to the point that they bored him. Spencer’s reliability was lovely; it was what made him likeable, but it certainly didn’t make him interesting. Elizabeth was cheerful and funny, unlike most people, but, still, Brendon almost always knew exactly what she was going to say-- the same with Sarah, Linda, his parents… Even Ryan, really, had been predictable.   
While Brendon had never been able to pinpoint exactly what Ryan was going to say in a certain instance, it was almost always obvious what he was going to talk about. His opinions and his actions were usually so obvious that Brendon could put him into any circumstance and imagine something accurate, with assurance. Most people, he found, were like this.   
Dallon, however, was different. He said cryptic things, which made Brendon ask questions, which lead to cryptic answers and even more questions. Everything he did seemed to contradict whatever box Brendon had attempted to place him into most recently. This was new. Brendon was no longer focused on finding Spencer. “Where are you from?”  
“Utah,” Dallon had finished his cigarette and was sipping a glass of water. “Not as impressive as upstate New York, right?”  
“I don’t know-- I haven’t been there,” Brendon knew nothing about Utah. He probably couldn’t pick it out on a map.  
“Good. Don’t ever go.”  
“Why not?”  
“There’s absolutely nothing there,” he took a long gulp of water. “Would you like another drink?”  
“No, thank you,” Brendon yawned. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”  
“Is that Brendon or New York talking?”  
“What exactly are you asking me?” Brendon laughed. Dallon’s lines were much harder to decipher than Ryan’s had been.  
“Are you telling me you don’t want another because you really don’t want one,” Dallon spoke slowly, as if he were explaining something to a child. “Or are you telling me you don’t want another because you think that’s the right thing to say?”  
“Both, I suppose.”  
“What’re you here for, anyway?” this question was sudden. Unexpected.   
“Pardon?”  
“Everyone’s here for something,” Dallon explained. “I’m here to write. Picasso is here to paint. Sarah and Linda-- well, Sarah and Linda have their reasons. What’ve you come to do?”  
“Play piano,” Brendon recited. “That’s the only thing I’m any good at.”  
Dallon laughed loudly, but composed himself quickly. “Really? You came across the Atlantic to play piano in Paris?”  
“Yes.”  
“Come with me.”  
“What?”  
“You heard.”  
Dallon grabbed Brendon by the hand and pulled him through the crowded ballroom, weaving through dancers and still party-goers engaged in discussion. Eventually, they reached a small winding staircase, which Brendon found himself climbing behind Dallon out of sheer curiosity. The staircase let out in a room with a panoramic window, overlooking the Paris skyline. The room was illuminated only by the lights of the city. In the corner sat a grand piano, at which Dallon gestured. “Go on, then.”  
Wordlessly, Brendon sat at the piano. He played middle C, slowly, testing the piano for tune. It was flat. Music from the party downstairs seeped softly through the tile floor. Dallon tapped his foot almost impatiently. Suddenly, Brendon was sitting at a different piano, the one in the hall of the Estate. Elizabeth was out for the day; he was alone with Ryan. His fingers found the right keys before his mind could figure out what song he was going to play.  
It was that song. Brendon had long forgotten the name, the name wasn’t at all relevant. It was that song. The song he had been playing the first time he ever saw Ryan, in his parents’ home. Why had Ryan been there? Why had Brendon been playing piano when he arrived? These things were not at all important to Brendon at the time, and so they had been forgotten, just like the name of the song. His hands moved on their own until the song was finished, flying across the keys until there were no more notes for them to play.  
“That…” Dallon took a breath. “That was… better than I expected.”  
“That’s all?” Brendon was back in the present.  
“No, it’s not. You’re not the best I’ve heard, but you certainly aren’t awful,” He took another sip of water. “You just sound a bit… impersonal, is all.”   
“Impersonal?”  
“Your hands are on the piano, but your mind is someplace else,” Dallon shrugged. “It’s impressive-- I certainly couldn’t do anything like that without thinking about it.”  
“That’s all you have to say?” Most people would at least clap. Ryan would’ve showered Brendon in applauds, cheers, and kisses, had he played something like that.   
“Would you like me to say more?”  
“That depends on what you’re planning to say.”  
Dallon laughed and sat down on the floor in front of the window, gazing out at Paris. “You’re spoiled.”  
Brendon slid off the piano bench and settled next to Dallon, but not too close. “I am not.”  
“It’s alright, I don’t mind,” He didn’t look away from the window. “It gives you character.”  
“Does it?”  
“It does. Your friend-- he’s not as spoiled as you, and I like him much less than you.”  
Brendon, for some reason, took offense to this. “Spencer isn’t spoiled at all.”  
“My point exactly,” Dallon was still staring out at the city. “Spoiled people are more fun.”

When Brendon and Dallon finally ventured back downstairs, the party was winding down. The band was packing up their instruments, and it wasn’t hard at all to find Spencer, standing alone near the bottom of the stairs looking like he’d seen a ghost. “Brendon,” he breathed. “We need to go. Now.”  
“What?” Brendon asked. “My dear wet bl--”  
“We have to go.”  
“Is something the matter?” Dallon asked. “I promise you, Brendon and I were only--”  
“It’s not that,” Spencer promised quietly. “We need to leave now. It was nice meeting you, Dallon.”  
“And you,” Dallon nodded politely. “I trust I’ll be seeing the pair of you at tomorrow evening’s party?”  
“Without a doubt,” Brendon responded. He smiled, and Dallon smiled back at him.   
“Good, then I won’t have to track down your address.”


	6. Chapter 6

“What had you so shaken up in there?” Brendon asked gently as he and Spencer took off their jackets.   
“Oh--” Spencer sighed. “I--- well, Sarah… and Linda… we were-- They--”  
“You’re not telling me anything.”  
“I walked in on Sarah and Linda kissing,” this he said at twice his normal talking speed. “Each other.”  
“That’s why Dallon didn’t tell me what they were doing here!” Brendon exclaimed, proud of his sleuthing skills. “And when Sarah said they were going to ‘get away’-- oh, this is…”  
“Linda was… objectively attractive,” Spencer chose his words carefully.  
“She still is,” Brendon removed his shoes and set them down next to the door.   
“Only now, it’s inappropriate for me to find her so.”  
“I wouldn’t say that.”  
“It’s a lost cause,” Spencer sighed. “But enough of that! What about you and Dallon?”  
“What about us?”  
“What were you doing? Where did you go?”  
“He bought me a drink,” Brendon measured his words carefully. Spencer was not going to like this at all. “And I played piano for him.”  
“Oh,” Spencer responded, “You were drinking? Was he?”  
“Does it matter?” As soon as he said this Brendon realized it was a mistake. If he needed to ask, the answer was yes.  
“Why wasn’t he drinking? What were his intentions?” Spencer sat down on his bed. “That’s all I’m curious about. Perhaps it’s--”  
“It’s not your place,” Brendon replied. “But you are, as always, most likely correct.” He fell next to Spencer on the bed and removed his tie.   
“Do you remember when you first started seeing Ryan?”  
“Of course I do,” Brendon huffed. “But Dallon is different, Spence. You’re wrong, if you think they’re exactly the same. Trust me.”  
“Brendon,” Spencer breathed, “You need to listen to me.”  
“No I don’t, I’m your employer.”  
“You also happen to be my best friend,” This was bold. Spencer wasn’t one to correct people at all. “And as your friend I am telling you, Brendon, do not invest yourself in this boy.”  
“Man, Spencer, he’s a grown man, as am I.”  
“Is everything I’m saying passing over your head?” Spencer looked concerned. “Brendon, please, don’t make the same mistake twice. Don’t fall for somebody else who’ll just…” He trailed off, most likely because there was no simple explanation for what Ryan had just done.   
“I’m not falling for anyone,” Brendon argued. “I know what Ryan did to me, alright? I know that Ryan hurt me, I know better than you do. But Dallon… Dallon isn’t anything like Ryan. You haven’t talked to him, you wouldn’t know.”  
“I don’t want to argue with you,” Spencer decided. “But I don’t want you to get hurt. Keep that in mind, alright? I’ll always be here for you, no matter who you waste your time on.”  
They both smiled. “Dallon isn’t a waste, my dear wet blanket,” Brendon found himself laughing. “Trust me on this.”  
“I’m afraid I can’t, at least not until I know what his intentions are.”

“Brendon, dearest, you’re wearing it backwards,” Ryan was giggling like a schoolgirl as Brendon stepped out of the bedroom and into the hallway. “And I suppose you tied your tie while wearing oven mitts?”  
“Of course,” Brendon was laughing, too. “And are you sure? I like the brim better in back.”  
“Well, the Sears catalogue likes the brim better in the front,” said Ryan, removing Brendon’s hat and replacing it properly. “And I agree with them.”  
“I thought my clothes had no effect on your love for me.”  
“I thought a grown man would know how to put on a hat and tie his own tie,” Ryan smiled at Brendon. “There’s a reason these things don’t come with instructions.”  
“I’ve never gotten dressed without Spencer before,” Brendon admitted. “At least, not since I can remember.”  
“This, my dear, is the downside of the American aristocracy.”  
“Where’s the rest of the poem?”   
“I haven’t written it yet,” Ryan untied Brendon’s tie. “I don’t suppose I will-- the alliteration makes a good point into a hopeless cliche.”  
“It seems you’re writing the rest of the poem now,” Brendon laughed. It was very like Ryan to compose poetry in the middle of a conversation.   
“Perhaps I am,” Ryan laughed too, holding one end of the tie in each hand. “Are you paying close attention? It’s quite laughable that you can’t dress yourself, and I’d hate for you to be a laughingstock.”

Another night, another party. Brendon and Spencer entered a new setting, a jazz club, clad again in their best suits. Dallon stood near the door talking to Sarah, a cigarette suspended between his fingers. Smoke twirled through the air as he brought it, gracefully, to his lips. “... awfully difficult to portray them authentically when I’m confined to stilted dialogue,” he was saying as Brendon and Spencer strode over.  
“As I said, that’s what writing is,” Sarah huffed. “Have you ever once read a book where the dialogue is accurate? That’s the point of it.”  
“It’s quite an unnecessary point,” Dallon deadpanned, pushing smoke from his mouth in a delicate vapor. He noticed Brendon and Spencer standing beside him. “Ah, Brendon. Sarah and I were just discussing my novel-- she seems to think it would be inappropriate to use realistic dialogue. Your thoughts?”  
Spencer huffed something under his breath about being ignored. “I’ve none,” Brendon decided. “At least on that subject-- I know nothing about writing, and I don’t read.”  
“Why wouldn’t you?”  
“I haven’t the patience,” Brendon explained, barely registering the fact that Sarah was dragging Spencer away again. “Everything seems to go over my head-- why wouldn’t an author use contractions?”  
“My point exactly,” said Dallon. “Writing nowadays is too formal. Actually, writing has always been too formal. How is a reader expected to engage with a character when that character speaks only in verse? Have you met anyone in this century who doesn’t use contractions?”  
“No, I haven’t.”  
“This is exactly the problem with modern literature,” Dallon spoke calmly and slowly, as if he were trying very hard not to yell. “What is the point of writing if there is no one you are writing to?”  
Brendon thought this was a curious thing to say, especially given that Dallon himself tended to speak in verse and make minimal use of contractions. Everything he said opposed everything he did. “You contradict yourself more than anyone I’ve ever met.”  
Dallon raised a questioning eyebrow. He was very good at going from being wordy to using no words whatsoever. “You talk exactly like these characters you say don’t speak right,” Brendon explained. “In metaphors and poetry and long, indecipherable words.”  
“I’m a writer,” said Dallon simply, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke, “Writers, I think, are allowed a certain amount of floweriness in our speech. Just as musicians such as yourself are allowed to play more complex pieces than the general public would understand.”  
“It’s not the same,” Brendon argued. “Words are words and music is music.”  
“Art is art.” Dallon took a drag from his cigarette and slowly exhaled, smoke curling from his lips.  
“You sound… you sound like an old friend of mine.”  
“Your friend is smart,” Dallon decided, with another puff of smoke.  
“Not really,” Brendon argued. “He’s foolish.” Foolish and cruel.   
“Intelligence and common sense are very different things.”


	7. Chapter 7

Brendon spent yet another evening talking to Dallon, emptying glasses of whiskey and watching as Dallon smoked cigarette after cigarette into oblivion. It was intoxicating, watching his process of going through them. Brendon was captivated by the smoke that danced its way from Dallon’s lips into the air, where it slowly transformed into heavy nothingness. He couldn’t look away as Dallon rubbed the end of each still-smoking roll of paper and tobacco onto the ashtrays placed around the club. Someone should make a moving picture, Brendon decided, of just Dallon smoking a cigarette.   
“Do you stare at everyone like that?” Dallon asked as he brought his lighter to his lips for the third time.  
“Sorry.”  
“That’s not an answer,” Dallon sat down on an armchair and stretched his long legs out onto the associated ottoman. “You’re bad at answering questions.”  
“How so?”  
“You either don’t say enough or you say too much of the wrong thing,” he breathed out a puff of smoke. “Part of being spoiled, I suppose.”  
“What makes me spoiled?” Brendon demanded. “You didn’t answer me last night. Come to think of it, you’re not too good at answering yourself.”  
“You’re spoiled because you’ve never had to work a day in your life,” Dallon explained, showing no emotion. “Did the Great War ever find you, Brendon? Did Uncle Sam ever come calling for you? No, because people who don’t work don’t fight.”  
“I was too young,” Brendon argued. “Fifteen when it started in Europe.”  
“Eighteen when it started in the states,” ashes fell to the floor from Dallon’s cigarette, “Nineteen when it ended. That’d be one year of service for the common man, at least. That was three years of service for myself, before I was sent back to work. I don’t mind, really-- being spoiled gives you something, something the rest of us don’t have.”  
“And what might that be?”  
“I’m not sure,” Dallon decided, “And if I were, I don’t think I’d find it so interesting.”  
Brendon sighed. “It’s as if you’re writing a poem while you’re talking to me.”  
“Poems,” Dallon huffed, “Are the overly pretentious refuge of those who are incapable of writing more than a single line at a time.”  
“Some poems are pretty.”  
“Most aren’t,” more ashes found their way onto the floor.   
Ryan’s poems were pretty. Brendon was aware that he only felt that way out of an obligation ingrained on him long ago, but, still, it was his feeling. That, he decided, was why he had brought a single leather-bound book across the Atlantic-- Stutter Something Profound by Ryan Ross. A manuscript that was never published, but printed once at an expense taken out of Ryan’s own pocket.  
Brendon couldn’t help but imagine the first page, the edges slightly worn from the book being opened so many times and taken so many places. For B, my one true love. B, rather than Brendon, because, as with most things, part of the truth was romantic and the whole truth was deadly. B could’ve been Beth or Betty, and Beth or Betty could’ve been Elizabeth. Four people on Earth knew who that inscription was really intended for, although, that meant nothing, because aside from those four people only the printer had read the book.  
And under the inscription, Ryan had written a three-line poem, some exotic form of writing, the name of which escaped Brendon’s memory. Pressed into his brain, forever scrawled on the organ in Ryan’s messy script, was the poem.   
Oh, my dear Brown Eyes, how I  
Love you, love you so  
All my heart to you belongs.  
That was what came to Brendon’s mind when he thought of poetry. That book, hidden in a box under his bed. That book which Spencer and Elizabeth and certainly Ryan thought had been destroyed months ago. That book which should’ve been destroyed, months ago, by fire or by some other means unknown to Brendon. That book which should’ve been tossed into the garden with that awful, crumbling rock.  
“Did I offend you?” Dallon asked.   
“No,” Brendon replied quietly. “You’re probably right, anyway-- I suppose I can’t judge all poetry from what little I’ve read.”  
Dallon laughed, throwing his head back in an almost comical manner. “You’re such a diplomat,” he managed between peals of laughter. “I don’t care if we have different opinions, you don’t have to paint over anything.”  
“Oh,” Brendon sighed. “Sorry, that was New York talking again.”  
“I understand, I often talk as Utah,” Dallon released another puff of smoke, “Would you like another whiskey? I’m told I’m more interesting with a side of alcohol.”  
“I find you plenty interesting sober,” Brendon admitted.   
“Good, then don’t ask for a drink later.”  
“I won’t,” he laughed, ignoring everything Spencer had told him the previous night. Dallon looked good, in the poorly-lit club, with his hair stopping just short of hanging in his eyes and a cigarette between his fingers. Dallon looked amazing, breathing smoke into the air and voicing pretentious opinions, just under his breath enough to be attractive. Dallon looked like the exact opposite of Ryan, and, yet, like a perfect mirror image.   
Brendon could, if he wanted to, grab Dallon by his green-flowered lapel and kiss him, just for the sake of doing so. He would taste like smoke, Brendon imagined. Of course he would taste like smoke. “You’re staring again,” Dallon pointed out.  
“My apologies--”  
“Brendon! Dallon!” Sarah jogged over, dodging the crowd skillfully. “A few of us are going out for drinks-- would you like to join us?”  
“I thought we already were out for drinks,” Dallon huffed loudly, making his annoyance clear.   
“No, we’re out dancing,” Sarah laughed. “There is a difference, you know.”  
“Not for Dallon,” Linda had joined the trio, and was pulling Spencer by the arm behind her. “He just stands and smokes no matter what the rest of us are doing.”  
“Brendon doesn’t want any more drinks,” Dallon explained, “He just told me so.”  
“We could go back to the apartment,” Spencer suggested. “It is late-- nearly midnight.”  
“Nobody worthwhile turns in before three,” Sarah responded, waving her cigarette around in its holder. “Besides, you’ve all day to sleep.”  
Sarah, Linda, and Spencer continued to discuss the merits of going for drinks. “There’s a park down the road,” Dallon whispered to Brendon, “It’s got a rose garden and a fountain-- not much, but I suppose it’s better than another club.”  
Brendon nodded wordlessly and allowed Dallon to drag him away from the group.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time skips are a bit confusing, sorry.

“I come here to write sometimes,” Dallon admitted, “With a pen and pad, like in the old days. It’s calming.”  
Brendon kicked at the gravel at his feet. A single streetlight illuminated the small park, which consisted of a small rose garden, a fountain, and an iron bench, left over from the turn of the century. Dallon was right; it wasn’t much. “What happened to your inquisitive nature?” Dallon asked, laughing. “You’re so quiet all of a sudden.”  
“I’m just thinking,” Brendon replied. This much was true. He was thinking, about Dallon and Ryan and poetry, about Sarah and Linda and Spencer and Boyd and Grace.   
Brendon was always thinking about Ryan. Everything, it seemed, related to their admittedly brief relationship. Everything in Brendon’s world revolved around Ryan Ross. That was the way it was, because that was the way it always had been. That much was clear and simple. Nothing else was. Dallon, with his cigarettes and mysteries and hatred of poems, was starting to replace Ryan in Brendon’s head. Dallon, the unemployed writer from the middle of nowhere, had infiltrated Brendon’s thoughts in a way that he couldn’t describe.   
There wasn’t any risk, really. Brendon knew, knew from the green carnation pinned to Dallon’s jacket, that there was no risk. If Dallon didn’t love Brendon, he would learn to, just as Brendon would learn to love him. Spencer was wrong-- Dallon wasn’t just another Ryan; there could never be another Ryan! No one could captivate Brendon as completely and totally as Ryan could, not Dallon, not anyone. Brendon was in love with Ryan, though he had never said those words to himself. Brendon was in love with Ryan, and he knew would would be a very long time before he could feel that way about somebody else-- but Dallon was second place.  
There was something about him, something about the way the smoke danced from the cigarette between his lips, something about how his hair hung in his eyes. There was something about his voice and the things he used it to say, something that drew Brendon in like gravity. There was something about Dallon that Ryan didn’t have. Brendon couldn’t exactly describe it, but he could say that his world wouldn’t stop if he kissed Dallon Weekes.  
So he did. Suddenly, abruptly, without any form of warning. Dallon had been saying something, something drowned out by Brendon’s thoughts, but he went silent as their lips made contact. It had been a while. When was the last time Brendon had kissed Ryan, or Ryan had kissed Brendon? He wondered how long it had been since Dallon’s last kiss. That wasn’t important.  
Dallon’s mouth tasted of cigarette smoke and faintly of tooth powder, and faintly of something else that Brendon couldn’t identify. His lips were chapped, but it made no difference. Nothing made any difference.  
They pulled away. They were in public, after all, and the cover of night would only protect them for a few minutes. The others might come looking for them soon. Neither asked for an explanation; they simply nodded at each other. Nothing more happened for a very long while.   
“You’re good at that,” Dallon mumbled after a time, “I suppose you’ve had practice?”  
“Of course I have,” Brendon responded.  
“Who hasn’t, these days?” Dallon had dropped his cigarette and snuffed it sometime during the kiss, leaving him empty-handed.   
Brendon stared at Dallon, watching as small flurries of snow fell in his hair. It was snowing here, too, Brendon realized. It was snowing here, just like at home. “There you are!” Spencer jogged over to the park, shattering Brendon’s train of thought. Derailing Brendon’s train of thought and sending it tumbling to its doom, and that of the many passengers. “Sarah and Linda are calling a car. They sent me to find you-- they want Dallon to show us around Paris.”  
“You’ve seen Paris,” Dallon clicked his lighter as he talked. “You’re seeing Paris right now.”  
“What time is it?” Brendon asked. Nobody seemed to hear him.  
“Yes, but…” Spencer kicked at the gravel.  
“You don’t trust me to be alone with Brendon,” Dallon said matter-of-factly, bringing his cigarette to his lips once again. “You think I’m bad for him. That I’m going to hurt him.”  
“I never said that.”  
“No, but you were thinking it.”  
“It’s none of your business what I think,” Spencer said shortly. He was clearly trying to restrain his temper. “But if you must know, I think you’re taking advantage of Brendon. And for the record, he’s taking just as much advantage of you.”  
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Dallon blew smoke in Spencer’s face, “But to be perfectly honest, I don’t care.”  
Brendon cringed. There was absolutely no way that this could go well. “Gentlemen, perhaps--”  
“He has feelings, you know,” Spencer hissed. He didn’t hiss often. “He has feelings, and you’re going to stomp on them.”  
“Why don’t you let Brendon make his own decisions?” Dallon sounded bored, like he had this kind of argument every day.   
“What’s taking so long?” Sarah called, jogging over with Linda and another young woman in tow, “It’s been nearly five minutes!”  
Spencer faked a smile. “Dallon and I just got wrapped up in a discussion. We’re ready to go now, though.”  
“I’m glad you two are warming up,” Sarah beamed, “Now, I was thinking we go on a carriage ride, wouldn’t that be fun? And Dallon could point out all the notable stops, you know. Do you all have winter coats?”  
“Of course they do, it’s winter,” the new girl smiled brightly, tucking a lock of hair that had fallen out of her bun behind her ear. “That’s just common sense.”  
“Do we?” Brendon asked. He hadn’t worn his coat in the car.  
“Yes, of course,” Spencer replied. “I brought them both just in case.”  
“My, you think of everything, don’t you?” There was a slight bitterness to Dallon’s tone, which was already dripping with sarcasm.   
“Amazing,” Sarah beamed, “The carriage has been waiting outside for ten minutes.”

The six of them piled, like fur-covered sardines, into the carriage, clad in their winter coats and hats. Brendon imagined the whole thing toppling over on its side, spilling its occupants onto the road where they would all be crushed by passing automobiles. All of them, of course, except for Spencer, who would pick himself up, dust himself off, and turn around to meet the woman of his dreams. This, Brendon realized, was highly unlikely. Spencer had poor reflexes and, due to his position in the carriage, would land with Brendon, Linda, and Sarah on top of him.   
“This is Breezy,” Sarah gestured at the new girl, who was sitting next to the driver, “She’s a dancer, isn’t that lovely?”  
“Brendon plays piano,” Spencer shared, although this comment was ignored by all.   
Sarah proceeded to introduce Brendon and Dallon to Breezy, who was busy trying to fix her hair. She reminded Brendon, in a sense, of Elizabeth, although nearly every woman reminded him of Elizabeth. This, he supposed, was due to guilt.

Ryan and Brendon were sitting at the kitchen table, sharing a romantic dinner and wine. “I do feel bad,” Brendon admitted, “How awful are we, to have our dinner in poor Elizabeth’s home while she is out?”  
“Brendon, my dear,” Ryan reached across the table to fix Brendon’s bangs. “Spencer is away, and we don’t have a cook. It’s only fair that we employ the kitchen staff that I am paying for.”  
“But we’re drinking her wine--”  
“Wine that was financed by me,” Ryan smiled brightly. “Relax. She won’t be home for hours.”

“You’ve been quiet,” Dallon leaned over to Brendon, holding his cigarette over the side of the carriage, “I suppose you’ve lost your fondness for me.”  
“Of course not,” Brendon replied. “Why would I have?”  
“Your friend doesn’t like me.”

“Are you sure, Brendon?” this from Spencer as he ironed, not even looking up. “I mean… are you sure? You barely know him.”  
“I know him plenty,” Brendon argued, “I know him enough to know that I love him.”  
“He’s married.”  
“Not for much longer.”

“He doesn’t like anyone I show interest in,” Brendon said quietly. “I’m sure it’s nothing personal.”  
“What’re you boys whispering about?” Breezy smiled and leaned closer to the pair.   
“Me,” Spencer sighed. The carriage suddenly seemed much too small for its seven occupants.


	9. Chapter 9

Weeks passed, and, slowly but surely, Brendon and Spencer became acclimated to life in Paris. More evenings were spent with Sarah, Linda, Breezy, and Dallon, exploring local pubs and jazz clubs. Brendon must’ve wasted hours simply watching Dallon smoke, as he never did get over his fascination. Whenever they were alone, Brendon and Dallon indulged themselves in more kisses. It had become a way of life, a new pattern to replace the one which Brendon had established with Ryan.  
At present, Brendon was sitting at his desk, slicing open an envelope. He cut the paper quickly, leaving a jagged tear. Spencer would’ve spent a few minutes dragging the letter opener in a straight line, but Brendon didn’t have time for that. He had finally received a response from Elizabeth.  
My dearest Brendon,  
I do hope that this letter finds you and Spencer both in good health. Prohibition is going just as we all expected it to go, that is to say, very poorly. There are, of course, bootleggers, and something tells me that you would be joining them, were you here. Anubis is well; as much so as is possible for a dog. I have no idea what the situation will be when this letter finds you, but as of today, Ryan has written regarding the divorce; it is likely that we will be split by the time your response reaches me. I assume you will respond?  
Perhaps I should keep this from you, but… he asked after you in his letter. I have not given him your address, and I do not advise you to write to him. Keep yourself safe, Brendon, and listen to Spencer. He does know what is best for the both of you, and I trust you agree. Humor me when I say that Ryan is not good for you.   
Very much love,

Elizabeth had signed the letter in a concise and particular script, with her name printed below. “Good God,” Brendon mumbled. What was Ryan thinking?   
How could he ask after Brendon, after everything that had happened? How dare he speak to Elizabeth, sweet Elizabeth who had caused him no harm at any point? What game could Ryan possibly be playing? Brendon sighed loudly, pushing the letter to the corner of his desk. 

“What are you saying?” Brendon demanded. “Ryan…”  
“I have to do this,” Ryan took Brendon’s hands, “It could be a breakthrough in the field. If I can find the boy king--”  
“We can’t go to Egypt right now.”  
“There is no we, my darling,” Ryan seemed to be staring through Brendon and focusing on the drapes behind him. “This, I must do as an unburdened man.”  
“And I’m a burden?”  
“Brendon…” Ryan, for once, was at a loss for words. Yes. “No.”  
“Why not stay here? You don’t need money, you have plenty! You have everything you need!” Brendon was on the verge of tears. “Why would you want to live alone and poor in a country where you don’t speak the language?”

“Are you alright, my dearest one?” Dallon tilted Brendon’s chin up with his fingers.   
“Just thinking,” Brendon mumbled, resting his head on his beloved’s shoulder.   
“What about?”   
“New York,” it wasn’t exactly a lie.  
“You think about New York quite a bit,” said Dallon, gently stroking Brendon’s hair, “You’re not homesick, I trust?”   
“Not at all,” Brendon sighed, “I’m just thinking about how little I miss it. I’m just thinking about how perfect everything is right now, here, with you.”

“Go, then! Get out!”  
“I will, if you’re so passionate about it!”  
“Don’t make this about me, you’d be leaving anyway,” Brendon roared, tears rolling in succession down his face, “Don’t make this about anything but the fact that you… never… cared….”  
“Of course I cared!” Ryan sounded offended. “Of course I cared, to have left my home and family for you! To have spent countless dollars and afternoons, all in the name of your pleasure, there is no way I could’ve not cared! And just as I cared, I still care, and will always care!”  
“Then stay!” Brendon could never out-word Ryan. “Stay here with me, where you have everything you want! Stay here where the money is, where the house is, and where I am!”

Dallon smiled at Brendon, gently repositioning him so that they were looking into each other’s eyes. They both leaned in, softly making contact. The kiss was gentle, more gentle than any kiss of theirs had been, and it was warm, the warmest thing Brendon had ever felt. He melted into the kiss, allowing his senses to be overwhelmed by it.

“Oh, Brendon,” Ryan smiled sadly, interrupting the yelling match with a kind, remorseful tone, “You’ve no idea what I want.”  
He put on his coat, and then his hat, without looking back at Brendon. He picked up his bag and his umbrella as Brendon watched, speechless. Ryan took one step, two steps, three steps, and he was at the door. Four, five, six steps, and he would never, ever, set foot in that house again. Seven, eight, nine, ten, down to the gravel path. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, and Brendon walked away from the window and never saw him again.

The two stared at each other for a time, taking in each other’s faces and emotions. Brendon bit his lip, waiting for Dallon to say something, or for himself to think of the right words. Moments passed before Dallon whispered, “Brendon, dearest?”  
“Yes?”  
“I love you.”


End file.
